The Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  In the throes of first love, Clive was happy to let me bring Flymo with me, but the reality is that he is a hardened goat hater, and his reservations about goats running amok were justified. The sheep followed Flymo everywhere, usually in the wrong direction; she didn’t allow them to go through gates and charged them as they attempted to pass by. She also ate the washing off the washing line: I found a pair of pyjama trousers with one leg missing. And she stood on her back legs and ate two hanging baskets.

  But her worst crime was when a friend of ours who lives nearby dropped in one afternoon for a cup of tea, arriving in his beautiful shiny black sports car. It was polished to perfection, so much so that you could see your face in it. And that was the problem. While we were in the farmhouse chatting, Flymo was getting indignant with another goat: her own reflection. When we came out there was not a straight panel on his car, she’d been venting her anger at the intruder by butting it. There was little point in protesting her innocence, as the dents in the car were all shaped like a goat’s head. It didn’t go down very well. Somehow, we managed to stay friends, but he drives an ordinary car now.

  Flymo’s attack is not the only problem we’ve had with cars parked on the farm. We had an official from the Ministry of Agriculture up here once and I did everything to impress her, down to getting out proper china cups and saucers instead of mugs. We were sitting in the kitchen going through the paperwork when suddenly a sheep shot in through the open door, going full pelt, and headed down the hallway. Seconds later a sheepdog came past like a torpedo, and almost immediately the sheep returned with the dog in hot pursuit. She never batted an eyelid, she never even mentioned it; we concluded our business, and we shook hands as she left. I was feeling quite confident I’d made a good impression.

  But when she went outside to her car we found she had parked on a set of chain harrows, and not one, not two, not three but all four of her tyres were completely flat. The harrows had been left at the side of the road several months before and the grass and weeds had grown up through them making them almost invisible. She sat patiently waiting for a tow truck to come and haul her car away while I kept a low profile.

  The summers are short here, and often wet, thus we spend a lot of time in waterproofs. A couple of years back I bought some bright yellow fisherman’s bib and brace waterproofs off eBay.

  When Clive saw me unwrapping the parcel he laughed.

  ‘What the bloody hell has ta bowt them for? You’ll look like Captain Birdseye.’

  ‘I bet yer any money that you’re wearin’ ’em before t’year’s out,’ I said.

  He’s lived in them ever since. He looks like he works for the council, but they do the job. When you are being lashed by the rain on the top of the moor, it’s as wet as being in a storm at sea. But there is a drawback: he mustn’t drink too much tea.

  There are some modern inventions that make our lives much more pleasant than those of our forebears. We have warm, efficient clothes and boots. Underneath our waterproofs we stay dry. The children all have waterproof overalls, and we must own one of the largest collections of wellies ever. The old farmers did the same jobs wearing hobnail boots and heavy woollen clothes which must have been permanently soggy, and with nothing more than smouldering peat fires to dry them out.

  There’s only one downside to the children’s wonderful all-in-one weatherproof suits: they can hide a very smelly nappy until you have a poop that is hotter than the middle of the sun incubating in there. My emergency supplies, which I have with me at all times, include a nappy and baby wipes, which you would understand if you’d ever tried to craft a makeshift nappy from a dock leaf, and dragged a child’s bum through some sphagnum moss to try to clean it.

  My emergency kit also includes a dog whistle (for summoning dogs or children). I can whistle with my fingers, but not as well as I’d like. The sound of a whistle travels further than a yell, and quite often the sheep will respond to a whistle without a dog. Clive can whistle very loudly without fingers and I am most envious. I carry a penknife, and some baler twine to tie up a gate, a sheep or anything else that needs to be secured.

  I also always have a balaclava with me in winter. I’ve been caught out too many times to mention, and it’s no fun in a torrential rainstorm, crouching at the back of a wall with a wailing baby on my back, my hair dripping with rain. The old Girl Guide/Boy Scout motto ‘Be prepared’ definitely applies at Ravenseat.

  6

  Married in My Riding Boots

  Clive’s marriage proposal was as romantic as the way he asked me to move in. In fact, he didn’t propose; I did.

  ‘Does ta think we should get married?’ I asked him.

  Grunt.

  ‘D’you think we should?’

  ‘Mebbe.’

  ‘Does that mean yes?’

  ‘I suppose so . . .’

  So you can see he was not madly enthusiastic. I believe a meeting with the accountant, who explained the advantages of us being a business partnership, swung it. I was twenty-five when we got married, we’d been together for more than four years, and as far as I was concerned it felt right to make it official. We decided there was only one place to celebrate this wedding. It had to be at Ravenseat.

  We were married in St Mary’s Church, Muker, followed by a big party here. My mother and sister came, and my grandfather (Mother’s father), gave me away. Our neighbour and friend Jimmy Alderson was one of Clive’s ushers. We looked into hiring a wedding marquee but balked when we saw the cost, and instead borrowed the local show’s blue-and-white striped beer tent. I asked everyone down the dale to help decorate it, and they brought balloons, banners, garden furniture, hanging baskets and tubs of flowers. This was a cause for celebration in Flymo’s eyes too: she spent happy hours eating the trailing lobelia and munching the marigolds, and it was embarrassing when our kind guests returned to retrieve their baskets and only chewed stalks remained.

  Clive and his friends held an impromptu stag night in the beer tent the night before. I, of course, know nothing of what went on, but knowing the company that Clive keeps I suspect that most of the chat revolved around sheep . . .

  We married on 29 July 2000. I wore a wedding dress in gold shot silk, in an Elizabethan style with a tapestry effect. I wanted something special, but a white meringue wasn’t my style, and wouldn’t have been very practical. As it was, I could take the hoop off the skirt and feed the calves in it, on the evening of the big day. Nothing stops, even for a wedding: animals need feeding and the routines of the farm are the same.

  There was an open invitation to the wedding and the party, anyone could come. We both dislike formal events so everyone was welcome. They could come to the church and not the party, or to the party, missing out the church, or they could be at both – and most people were. The church was packed, with a crowd of people gathered in the village and outside the church gates to watch our arrival.

  I didn’t want to arrive in an ostentatious limousine, so my plan was to ride my horse Meg side saddle to the church. I practised with her around the farm and along the road, wearing a sheet draped round me so she’d get used to the feel of the dress. Meg was probably about seven or eight years old then, although I’ll never really know as she was bought from the side of the road on her way to the Appleby horse fair. Clive had been away looking at some sheep at Meaburn and had seen gypsies camping at the roadside as they made their annual pilgrimage to Appleby. When he got home he told me of a wonder horse he’d spotted, tethered against a hedge. I had seen the same horse too, while on the way to the supermarket, and so we went back and, after a fair bit of haggling, a deal was struck. We had a horse, and one that we both liked. We don’t know her breeding, but she is a typical gypsy cob type, a stocky tri-colour, black, brown and white with a profusion of smooth, silky feather on her legs and a heavy mane and tail. I suspect there’s some Clydesdale in her as she has big clover-shaped hooves. She’s a good egg, a kind creature who is never sick or sorry. She is the only horse that Cliv
e has ever sat upon, the only horse that has gained a place in his affections.

  The day of our wedding dawned bright and clear. Instead of the normal bridal preparations – nails, hair and make-up – I was grooming the horse. I had spent the night at Pry House with Clifford and Jennie, our neighbours. Meg was loaded into a trailer and taken to Usha Gap, a farm on the edge of the village. A hay trailer was parked in the field as an improvised mounting block. We unloaded Meg and I saddled her up, everything was perfect. It was a very hot, sultry day, and the sky had remained clear until that moment, when a dark storm cloud blacked out the sun, and just as I was about to mount there was a rumble of thunder and the heavens opened. A bright fork of lightning split the sky and the violent downpour forced everyone to run for cover. All plans to ride the horse were off, and I bolted for the church, while Meg was loaded back into the trailer.

  Is this a sign from above? I thought as I headed for St Mary’s.

  But the storm cleared the air, and for the rest of the day the sun shone on us like never before, so if it was telling me something, it was all good. I was married in my riding boots, as I was unable to prise them off in time. I was sure no one would spot this, but when I was kneeling at the altar they were on show to the congregation behind me. It could have been a sad moment, not having my father there to give me away, but I was too flustered with the rain and the riding boots to think about it.

  Clive gave me a beautiful gold wedding ring but, as he never stops reminding me, within a few months I’d lost it in a grain bin.

  Muker is a pretty little village tucked between the moors and the River Swale; the church stands amid a cluster of stone houses nestling in the hillside. Traditionally, the church gates are tied with ribbon and twine by the village children to stop either of the couple changing their minds and running away. When you come out, married, you have to bribe the children with sweets and coins to untie the gates and let you through. Luckily, we remembered, and Clive had filled his pockets with goodies to hand out.

  After the service everybody set off back up the dale to Ravenseat. We had organized a hog roast and Clive’s friend Alec, a renowned sheepdog trainer, was at that time the landlord at Tan Hill. He and his wife Maggie set up and ran the bar. We had hired a dance floor and jukebox and one of our guests brought a mobile toilet trailer with him as a wedding present. We kept everything very informal: none of those official wedding pictures where the family all line up in order. We asked a photography student we knew to record our big day and she really captured the spirit of the event, including snapping some of our friends looking rather worse for wear. She photographed quite a few unfamiliar faces too. The day had been uncomfortably warm, and for those brave and hardy souls who were walking the Kirkby Stephen to Keld leg of the Coast to Coast, the unlikely sight of a striped blue-and-white beer tent sitting in a remote field must have been a very welcome sight. I’ve got people with backpacks and rucksacks on in my wedding photos, people I’ve never seen before or since.

  ‘We thought it was a mirage, that the heat had got to us, when we saw a beer tent,’ they said.

  Their presence sowed a seed in my head for the future: perhaps one day I could earn a little bit of money by serving refreshments to the tired and hungry walkers who pass through Ravenseat.

  The following morning, after the festivities, I had quite a few bacon sandwiches to make. Some of the revellers had brought their tents and caravans and decided to make a weekend of it, and by mid afternoon the party was in full swing again.

  We told everyone that we didn’t want wedding presents, just their company, but despite this, we were given some very special ones. Steve Akrigg had been helping Clive out at Ravenseat for many years and in the months running up to our wedding he became increasingly excited about some secret project, dropping veiled hints between fags about the marvellous wedding present that was coming our way. At the same time we realized that Nick, another man who occasionally helped us out during our busy times, was also planning a surprise.

  On the morning of the wedding Steve turned up dressed to the nines and bursting with pride as he proudly presented us with our presents, a pair of beautiful shepherd’s crooks with Swaledale sheep carved into the horn handles.

  ‘Every time thoo goes to t’auction thoo must tek thi stick, it’ll be lucky for you.’

  It had clearly been a labour of love and he’d spent many hours whittling them.

  Later the same day Nick appeared, brandishing what looked suspiciously like two stick-shaped parcels. Sure enough, another pair of amazingly detailed shepherd’s crooks, Clive’s fashioned into the shape of a Swaledale tup and his sheepdog Roy, mine with a Swaledale yow and my horse Meg. Nick had commissioned a well-known stick-maker to make these especially for us. Neither Steve nor Nick had a clue about the duplication, and still don’t to this day. We don’t want to show any preference, so we don’t use any of the sticks in the ring, and they’re far too good for working the sheep. But we really value them and have them on display on the beams in the living room, and we’ll hand them down as heirlooms to our children.

  We didn’t go on honeymoon for a week. It was clipping time, and that took priority, so a couple of days after our wedding we were side by side in the clipping shed: business as usual. When the last sheep was clipped we set off to Ireland. Alec had lent us his new car because our beat-up Land Rover would never have made it. We drove around Ireland, stopping off at various bed and breakfasts, but I think that subconsciously we were always looking for somewhere just like Ravenseat. There is no place like home.

  It’s just a fact of farming life that holidays are few and far between. You have to make such careful arrangements for the animals and with so many jobs being weather dependent, it’s difficult to make any plans. We once went to France in late June and the weather was glorious, which would have been good news for most folks. But not for us: Clive spent all his time watching the French farmers making hay. He was starting to get twitchy and kept ringing Jennie at Pry House.

  ‘They’re all mowing ’ere,’ave you started?’

  ‘No, Clive. It’s raining.’

  ‘It’s red hot here. Are yer sure ’bout the weather?’

  ‘Honestly, Clive, I promise yer, it’s peeing down. Relax and enjoy yer holiday.’

  Anyway, although I didn’t know it, by the time we went to Ireland on honeymoon I was already pregnant with Raven. I thought it was seasickness on the ferry going over, but it didn’t get better on dry land, and then I discovered that there was something more going on.

  Having a baby was a natural progression; it was something we both wanted but didn’t give too much thought. We hadn’t made any big plans, we just make it up as we go along.

  Clive says, ‘If you’d said to me we’ll have seven children, I’d have run a mile. It’s funny where life has taken us, but having the babies has always just seemed right.’

  We were both happy that I was pregnant, and things carried on much the same as usual. I had no intention of slowing down or putting my feet up and we were busy with the normal routines of the farm. Our hoggs went away for wintering as usual in November. We sent them in three groups, one to a farm at Longtown, near Carlisle, one to a farm in southern Scotland and some, along with some older, special yows, to Catterick, near Richmond. They went to good farms: over the years you get to know the best places, and you make sure you visit and keep an eye on them. We go to see them regularly when they’re away, and drench them with a wormer and a multivitamin dose. That’s what good shepherding is about.

  It was February 2001, when I was seven months pregnant, that we first heard the news about an outbreak of foot and mouth disease. It was all rather low key at that point, so we didn’t take too much notice. It was happening somewhere down in the south of England, it didn’t affect us or our area. But it wasn’t long before we had to take it all very seriously – and so did the whole country.

  The disease spread quickly, with one of the worst outbreaks centred on Longtown au
ction mart, where some infected sheep were unknowingly put into the auction. Some of our hoggs were only a few miles away and were slaughtered straight away in an attempt to contain the disease. It failed, and we now heard the word ‘epidemic’ being used.

  Our farm was on lock-down; nobody was allowed in unless absolutely essential and we stayed at home and only left the farm for vital supplies. The postman left our letters further down the dale and I didn’t go to see the midwife any more. With every trip off the farm we risked bringing the highly infectious disease back to Ravenseat. Our only contact was with our friends on the phone: we were all watching television to see where the latest outbreaks were. Looking back, it’s odd to remember that we didn’t have a computer then to give us all the news updates. Everyone was in a terrible state, all the farmers around here, just waiting for news, phoning each other with rumours and stories. It was heartbreaking; it was all we talked about and all we thought about.

  Yes, it was our livelihood. But it was also the animals we cared about, animals we nurtured and loved. We knew they were slaughtering sheep and cattle that weren’t infected, because there was a policy that there should be a three-kilometre zone around any infection, and all animals within in it would be slaughtered as a buffer. It caused massive problems: in the end seven million animals were killed in Britain, and only one fifth of them had the disease – the other 80 per cent were healthy.

  Our neighbour Clifford Harker could remember when the disease swept through the country before, in 1967, and he decided to take matters into his own hands. He barricaded the road just along from our farm, to stop any traffic coming over from Kirkby Stephen, where animals were being slaughtered. He put an old trailer and some enormous boulders across the road and a carpet soaked in disinfectant. You needed a damned good reason to come into Swaledale before he would let you through! At first, when he told us about it, we thought it was overkill, but he was a wise old boy and he knew what he was doing. There is no such thing as overkill with a disease like this, it’s highly infectious and can be spread on the wheels of cars and tractors, on clothing and equipment. If it had got into Swaledale the whole dale would have been wiped out completely, and probably it would have marked the end of the Swaledale breed of sheep.